The water surged, cold and immediate, climbing past Rong Ji’s chest. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp paper and ancient stone. Tang Ze yelped, scrambling onto a half-submerged lectern, his camera bobbing wildly. Ding Ruo let out a small, choked sound, her face pale as she clung to a stack of sodden scrolls.
“Well, isn’t this cozy?” Rong Ji muttered, pushing a floating, eyeless paper maiden away with his foot. He looked at Qinghe, who stood serene despite the chaos, the red of her veil a stark contrast to the churning grey water. He noticed the faint tremor in her hands, the way the silk of her robe clung to her, chilled.
[The Midnight Broadcast: *Oh dear! Looks like our contestants are experiencing an unexpected environmental challenge! Who will survive this thrilling aquatic twist? +150 Ratings for suspense!*]
“We need to get higher,” Rong Ji commanded, his voice cutting through the rising din. He spotted a precarious stack of carved wooden bookshelves reaching almost to the vaulted ceiling. “Tang Ze, help Ding Ruo. Qinghe, with me.”
Clambering was difficult. The shelves were slick with mildew and ancient watermarks, but they offered purchase. Rong Ji hauled himself onto the lowest shelf with raw leverage, then reached down for Qinghe. Her cold, delicate hand slipped into his, sending a sharp prickle through his palms as her skin met his. He hauled her up, her movements graceful even in the confined space, until they were perched side-by-side on the topmost shelf, their backs pressed against the damp, cold stone wall. Tang Ze and Ding Ruo soon joined them on an adjacent stack, shivering visibly.
The air, though still, carried the chill of the flood. Rong Ji glanced at Qinghe. Her veiled face gave away nothing, but the tremors running through her shoulders were obvious. Her drenched silk clung flat across her ribs, stiff with river mud. Her lips, visible beneath the edge of her veil, were a faint blue.
“You’re freezing,” he observed, his voice lower than usual, devoid of its usual caustic edge. He reached out, his fingers brushing the fabric of her sleeve. It was like touching ice.
She inclined her head slightly. “The cold… it is familiar.”
“Familiar doesn’t mean comfortable,” he retorted, though his tone held a rare gentleness. He remembered her touch, how the poison in his veins had frozen, how her own skin had been cold. He, a cultivator of the Blazing Sun sect before his dropout days, had a core of active, volatile Yang energy. It was normally a nuisance, making him run hot, but now… now it might be useful.
“Hold still,” he murmured. He sat cross-legged, closing his eyes for a moment. He drew on his internal energies, a faint golden glow emanating from his palms. He pressed his right palm flat against the small of Qinghe’s back, through the heavy, sodden silk of her robe. His left hand hovered near her shoulder, just above her veiled head, channeling the warmth.
It wasn’t a spell, not exactly. More of a directed meditation, forcing his own inner fire, his primal Yang, to gently radiate outwards. He felt her flinch, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement, then relax into the warmth. A faint sigh escaped her lips. The icy chill radiating from her seemed to recede, replaced by a subtle, comforting heat. The tips of her visible lips took on a faint, healthy pink.
“A makeshift spirit-tea,” he explained, his eyes still closed in concentration. “Not quite a brew, but the principle is the same. Warming the Yin.”
He felt her head lean back slightly, resting against his shoulder. The silk of her veil was cool against his cheek. “You… are surprisingly kind,” she whispered, her voice a soft current against the roar of the water below.
Rong Ji opened his eyes, a flicker of his usual defiance returning. “Don’t get used to it. It’s purely pragmatic. You’re no good as a protector if you’re a human icicle.” He paused, then softened his tone again. “And you’re still cold. I’m just taking the edge off.”
Her lean frame rested firm against his ribs, and the knot behind his temples loosened. “When this is over,” he found himself saying, the words startling even himself, “when we break this idiotic curse… I’ll show you the city. No more temples, no more ghosts. Just hot tea, proper hot tea, in a real teahouse. And maybe… maybe a night market.”
He felt her stir, her head lifting slightly. “A night market?” Her voice held a note of genuine curiosity, a fragile hope.
“Bright lights. Food on sticks. Maybe even a movie, if you’re brave enough for modern art. No veils, either.” He reached out, his fingers tracing the delicate embroidery on the edge of her red veil, a lingering, almost possessive touch. Her skin, beneath the silk, felt less frigid now. He imagined her face, unveiled, looking at the vibrant chaos of the world he knew. He imagined her smile.
Tang Ze, shivering violently on the next shelf, had pulled out a small, battered radio and his EMF meter. He was fiddling with the dial, a desperate concentration on his face. “It’s not just random static,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “It’s got a pattern. Morse. I told you, this Broadcast isn’t all magic. It’s got a signal tower somewhere. Gotta find the frequency.”
Ding Ruo watched Tang Ze, her small hands clasped tight, her mouth drawn thin.
Rong Ji pulled his hand away from Qinghe’s veil, the moment of intimacy broken by Tang Ze’s frantic tapping. He frowned. “Signal tower? You think this whole charade is being beamed from some overgrown antenna?”
“Everything needs a broadcast point, even otherworldly nonsense!” Tang Ze insisted, ignoring Rong Ji. His fingers flew over the tuning knob, the EMF meter’s needle twitching erratically. The static shifted, coalesced, then solidified into a distinct series of beeps and pauses. *Beep-beep-boop. Boop-beep-beep. Boop-boop-boop.* Tang Ze’s brow furrowed in intense focus, his lips moving as he mentally translated.
The water continued to rise, lapping at the very bottom of their precarious perch. Outside, the muffled *BWOOONG* of the drowned bell seemed to echo again, or perhaps it was just the memory. The air grew colder once more, despite Rong Ji’s efforts.
Tang Ze suddenly froze, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. The radio static continued its Morse code, now slower, more deliberate. He listened, his face draining of color. He looked from the radio to Rong Ji, mouth falling agape.
“What is it?” Ding Ruo asked, her voice sudden and sharp, cutting through the silence. “What did it say?”
Tang Ze swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper, yet it echoed in the claustrophobic space. “It said… ‘Ratings spike achieved; execute the groom.’”